


Gaudium

by nauticalGriot



Series: Corrumpo [1]
Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-11 08:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2061450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalGriot/pseuds/nauticalGriot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is GAMZEE MAKARA and you are A LITTLE ABOVE SIXTY-TWO SWEEPS. You also TYPE LIKE THIS nowadays. Obviously you still enjoy a FINE BEVERAGE or two, but you have DROPPED BAKING PIES due to it CLOUDING YOUR PAN for around eight sweeps. Your official title (as of half a sweep ago) is THE GRAND HIGHBLOOD but no one really knows how many have come before you and failed, died in a blaze or glory, or lost themselves to the MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS in their old age.</p><p>As your title implies, you are now head of the MIRTHFUL CHURCH and a HIGH RANKING OFFICIAL just below THE EMPRESS. This means you have ACCESS TO THE IMPERIAL FLEET and HOLD GREAT INFLUENCE AMONGST THE PEOPLE.  Unfortunately for everyone else, THIS MEANS YOU CAN SPREAD YOUR INFLUENCE FAR AND MOTHERFUCKING WIDE without obstruction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gaudium

The Empress is staring at you from the far end of the table, plate and silverware laid out all neat and comfortable in front of her and her hands relaxed in her lap. She looks a little tired, you think. Tired and content and young - far too young for her title. She, like you, has taken her spot in this world early. (Granted, it is a newly gained position.) She's only sixty sweeps, or something like that. You wouldn't really know, now would you. Maybe it's due to your deep seated hatred or her unending kindness. Motherfucking disgusting, all that kindness.

Your time with the Empress, this guest of honor, this practical GRUBLING, is going better than anyone with half an ounce of sense could have guessed. She's speaking in those grossly subdued tones and holding onto that smile as if it's keeping her alive and ain't it just precious. Ain't she, with her bounty of hair and her fuchsia eyes and her white gown, just  _motherfucking precious_ all soft and untouched like she had just been hatched yesterday.

God you are just _cullhappy_ , aren't you.

(And by cull you mean kill, not whatever blasphemous sort of misconstrued cull she uses.)

"I think it's about time we had a talk about the future." Your guest sounds all too cheerful, all too pleased to be sitting at your table with your food and drink and your seat under her ass. "Mine and yours, for the record. Speaking on only one would be almost p'ike procrastinating."

She puts the 'pike' in place of 'like' and you could shove your turkey leg right down her throat, jam it in there so she can't ruin your appetite with her dreadful puns. But you just smile a little, put on a face that would be relaxed if not for the tight corners of your mouth and the sharp teeth your lips are pulled over. Of course, she doesn't seem to mind your expression, keeping as cheerful and just as content to sit there as she was before.

This whole night she's been cracking jokes with you, as familiar as if she were clown kin, or your lusus, or the previous Empress - the real thing, a  _genuine article_ and if she were (if she weren't made of wax and brittle sticks for bones) you might give a laugh. As it is, you've been keeping a grin instead, reserving any laughter for a time when it's better used. For a time where you'll really be amused and really be able to enjoy yourself.

"What kind of Grand would I all and  _be_ if I didn't get my chat on about our future? Animal I may be but I still have the thinkpan to get the Word to the spongeclots of your auriculars."

She makes a face as if bothered by the way you speak (she is and you know she is and you revel in it) and clears her throat a little. "I plan to keep the throne, as you well know. To do so - nonviolently, of course - I will need you on my side."

You want to say  _well ain't you shit out of luck lil' grub_ or _too bad you ain't much for bein' useful_ but you exercise restraint and take a long drink of faygo. When you don't speak, she seems a bit caught off guard. Not quite offended but maybe a little miffed. It's a good look for her, you think, so you swallow and grin wide enough to show off your teeth again. She doesn't speak, you don't speak, and the silence seems thick enough to clog your cartilage nub and numb your lips.

"What do you think you motherfucking _know_ about holding a throne? About holding an inch of  _power_ beneath your heels? Girl can go claiming and I would not have the time to believe wriggler's tales."

She bristles at that, purses her lips and her eyebrows twitch a fraction lower.  _Good,_ you want to say,  _get angry. Learn how to do more than just survive._ As if she can hear your thoughts, she meets your gaze head-on and you figure she's trying to seem brave. There's nothing brave about her, with how she sits straight like a board with her shoulders back, one hand always in her lap so she can pull out her trident if she needs it - she plays a coward's game and there ain't nothing brave about her.

"S'right," you practically drag the word out "You ain't got your know about anything outside of that palace, do you?"

"I know plenty." She leans forward when she interrupts you and for a moment she looks taller, her hair makes her seem bigger, and if she were glaring and grinning she would be a picture of her ancestor. As it is, she isn't and you decide to find her body language and her hair annoying. "I know my people - _your_ people, too - and I know how harsh Alternia is and I know that I am going to bring about a great change. What I do not know is if you are going to stand by my side through this. You can do whatever you want, Gamzee, but I will not-"

Hearing her use your name is too much in an odd sort of way. It makes you angry, in a way that almost feels bitter.

"My name is for those of my ilk." You make sure the words come out even with an edge of a warning as you force another smile for her. "Not for those who wish to be what they, quite simply, ain't."

As soon as the words are out of your mouth she slams her palms onto the table in what you think to be a childish fit of rage, standing fast enough that her chair almost topples over behind her. She tips her head and you want to tell her _there ain't no good in lookin' down at me like that, even the most mirthful of the messiahs has his limits,_ but you don't (mostly because she's already speaking).

"I am your _Empress_ ; I do _not_ need to request permission to use your name!"

Silence drags over the room and you could choke her with voodoos and leave her writhing. You could beat her skull off of the wall until she _stops moving and breathing and goes still_ \- but you won't. You don't. You exercise that aforementioned self restraint and pull yourself to your feet, abandoning your food and the table in favor of going towards her.  She doesn't flinch, doesn't demand you stop or turn around. The little Empress - little Feferi Peixes, who isn't all that little anymore - stares you down from two feet away and you think if you tried right now you could do it, you could end her. (Of course, she does haul large beasts, cage them, or feed them to her lusus, and she is Empress - you could be underestimating her but you like to ignore that small detail.)

You will not get down on one knee or bow your head to her. You will not damn yourself to save some deformed sort of face with a girl you are just slaphappy over. So you smile and laugh.

"My apologies, _Empress."_ you say and her fins flare out, face darkening with color at your blatantly mocking tone. "Respect will be handed out like a motherfuckin' wriggler's candy from here on out."

She turns fast enough that her hair practically swoops around her as she goes. Her shoes click a little against the floor and she pauses at the door, looks over her shoulder, and take a deep breath. "Whether you like it or not, I am the rightful Empress."

The doors open then and a clown slips around her, dark eyes flickering to you and then her as the woman (Trieas, you think. She's recognizable by the braid her hair is fixed into.) contemplates leaving as quickly as she came. But you greet her with a 'our Empress was just gettin' her flippers to go' and she stays, loitering a few feet from the two of you until the fuschia troll makes her exit and the doors slam behind her.

"Ain't seen her lookin' so many shades mad before-" she starts and you grab a plate off of the table and _smash_ it off the side of her _ignorant skull_ because she should know not to be walking in your private conversations. She hits the floor and wheezes and you bring your foot down until that gut twisting noise comes to a stop.

Your name is Gamzee Makara and you are going to fucking kill Feferi Peixes if it's the last thing you do.


End file.
